Pride and Prejudice
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: A Lizzy/Darcy style romance. Elizabeth thought nothing could make her change her mind about Commodore Norrington, until he goes head to head with Cutler Beckett, and is perhaps mortally wounded while saving the life of Jack Sparrow.
1. Chapter 1

_Keeping step with Jane Austen's masterpiece, this is the story of Miss Elizabeth Swann and Commodore James Norrington—a tale of intrigue, pirates, peril, treachery and true love. Takes place a few months after "Curse of the Black Pearl." Instead of following Jack Sparrow into the hurricane, Norrington returned home._

Pride and Prejudice

_The Story of Miss Elizabeth Swann_

_And Commodore James Norrington_

_VVV_

_Mr. Darcy: Why do you ask such a question?  
__Elizabeth Bennet: __To make out your character.  
__Mr. Darcy__: __What have you discovered?  
__Elizabeth Bennet__: Very little. I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.  
__Mr. Darcy__: I hope to afford you more clarity in the future._

_-Pride and Prejudice_

_ONE_

"What do you think of this necklace, Betsy?" Elizabeth Swann glanced behind her at her maidservant, who was lighting the lamps and candles in Elizabeth's bedchamber.

"It's lovely, Miss," Betsy replied, being careful with the match. Elizabeth sighed and set the necklace down next to the others, canting her head as she surveyed all the long strands of glittering gold and silver by twilight and candlelight. Elizabeth smiled to herself.

"Betsy, you're not even looking." She arched an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder.

Betsy's face lifted, her eyebrows raised, hands cupped around the top of a candle.

"I am, Miss!" she insisted.

"Then which should I wear?"

Betsy sighed and came over, running her eyes over the jewelry laid out on Elizabeth's dressing table. She folded her arms.

"As I said, Miss, they are all exceedingly lovely…"

"But which would go best with this dress?" Elizabeth asked, stepping back and gesturing down at her light green ball gown embroidered in silver. Betsy glanced her over, then considered the necklaces. Her brow furrowed.

"My favorite one is not here, Miss."

Elizabeth frowned and stepped to her side.

"What? One is missing?"

"Ah, here it is," Betsy said, lifting the lid of Elizabeth's coconut-wood jewelry box and drawing out a chain of braided Spanish silver that bore an elegant emerald pendant. Elizabeth waved it away.

"I don't want that one."

Betsy's eyes widened.

"Why ever not? It's beautiful!"

"Because Commodore Norrington gave it to me," Elizabeth replied, fingering the other necklaces and finally picking up a plain silver one. She observed Betsy's confused expression as she fastened the necklace on herself.

"I cannot wear it—especially not tonight," she explained. Betsy was still bewildered.

"It isn't tactful," Elizabeth emphasized. "I have no intentions toward him, and at the moment he should be certain of that. I have no desire to change his mind." Elizabeth sat down in front of her mirror, considering her dimly-lit, smooth complexion and glimmering brown eyes, as Betsy set the necklace down and reached for the brushes.

"So you did not write to him while he was gone?" Betsy ventured.

"No, why would I?" Elizabeth asked. "Besides, who knew where exactly he would be while he was out chasing pirates."

Betsy ran her fingers through Elizabeth's long hair and began to brush it.

"Pardon me, Miss, but…is he not your friend?"

Elizabeth's mouth tightened.

"Perhaps he could have been, at one time. But no, not anymore." She fiddled with the necklace she wore. "Not after he set off to capture Jack Sparrow and hang him."

"He is a _pirate_, Miss…"

"And a good man, Betsy," Elizabeth insisted, grasping the chain and turning her head toward Betsy. "He saved Will's life, and mine. Yes, he is erratic and dangerous and…strange…but _he _is my friend. And he's the only real friend Will has ever had. Any affront against Jack is one against both Will and me."

Elizabeth faced the mirror again as Betsy ran the brush through her hair in long strokes.

"Perhaps the Commodore chases Mr. Sparrow because it is his duty," Betsy supposed as she twisted Elizabeth's hair up above her head and began pinning it.

"Then he is far too bound to it," Elizabeth retorted. "If duty gets in the way of his reason and morals then he is a fool, and not half the man Will is." Elizabeth finally took off the necklace she was wearing and set it down, staring at the others. "Besides which, he said some things today that make me hope with all my heart not to encounter him at the ball."

Betsy's hands tightened on her hair.

"You saw him already?"

"No, I have not seen or heard from him in three months," Elizabeth almost shook her head, but her hair was captive in Betsy's fingers. "But Will saw him this morning."

"What did he say?"

Elizabeth hesitated, realizing that if she told Betsy, the gossip would run through the whole house before the end of the hour. But she suddenly decided she did not care.

"Will says that the Commodore greeted him very uncivilly, and implied that Will ought to have been abroad with the fleet trying to catch Sparrow rather than remaining behind in peace and comfort." Elizabeth's stomach twisted. "He also said that the sooner Sparrow's head hung on a gibbet, the better he would sleep at night."

"Is that so? I cannot believe it!" Betsy declared. "I have never known the Commodore to be uncivil to anyone, let alone use such language."

"If it is not true, I would be happy to hear it from him," Elizabeth said, trying on another necklace without moving her head out of Betsy's reach. "But I doubt it. I have heard him describe hanging rather indelicately, and I would not be surprised at all if he was discourteous to Will. I just find it laughable that he would call himself a gentleman after making such remarks." Elizabeth gritted her teeth. "The man does nothing but make me furious, even when he is half an ocean away. I did not even want to go this evening, except Father asked so sweetly." Elizabeth sighed. "I don't suppose I will be able to avoid the Commodore _all_ evening, but I will certainly try."

Betsy finished Elizabeth's hair in silence. Elizabeth always liked the way Betsy did her hair—it complimented her features, dress and slender body so well.

"Thank you, Betsy," she said as her servant stepped back. "I'll just be a moment. If Will is in the entryway, tell him I will be down in a moment."

"Yes, Miss," Betsy murmured, and headed toward the door. Elizabeth blinked, and twisted to see her.

"Betsy? Is something wrong?"

"It is not my place, Miss," Betsy said stiffly, opening the door.

"I insist you tell me," Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice soft. Betsy met her eyes briefly, her hand on the doorknob.

"Pardon me, Miss, but…it's just that I seem to remember that the Commodore could have hanged Mr. Turner on the spot for trying to help Mr. Sparrow escape. But he didn't. And, if you'll recall, Miss…" Betsy said, halfway out the door. "He let Mr. Sparrow go." She ducked her head. "Goodnight, Miss." And she left, silently shutting the door behind her.

Elizabeth stared at the closed door. She bit her lip, and turned back around. The emerald on Norrington's necklace glimmered in the light of a single nearby flame. She stood up and headed toward the door. She would wear no necklace tonight.

VVV

"Is something troubling you?"

Will's quiet words in Elizabeth's ear made her smile. She glanced at him as she took his arm after disembarking from the carriage. His handsome features and warm brown eyes, as well as his fine hat and suit, were illuminated in the rich, golden exterior torchlight of the town hall. She leaned her head briefly on his shoulder.

"No," she whispered back. "I am actually perfectly happy tonight."

"Really?" Will said as they began to walk toward the grand doors. Her head turned at his tone.

"What does that mean?"

He gave her a look, cleared his throat, then ducked his head away as they passed through the doors and into the lighted entryway. She squeezed his arm.

"William…"

"I must be in trouble if you called me that," he muttered, smiling crookedly.

"Is something bothering _you?"_ she pressed. His brown eyes found hers. They stopped.

"You are perfectly happy," he repeated, his voice—though he did not know it—like a summer breeze. "Why?"

Elizabeth noted that his voice also carried concern—perhaps jealousy. His dark gaze held her captive on the threshold, searching.

For a moment, she just ran her eyes over his features, remembering how she loved each and every aspect of his face. Then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his soft lips. It surprised him, but when she pulled away, she saw she had earned one of his startled smiles. She returned it.

"Because if I have to fight immortal pirates, or face a room full of stuffy dignitaries and the horrible _Commodore Norrington_ with a smile on my face…I will have _you_ with me."

His grin broadened, and he drew himself up.

"In that case," he gestured ahead of him, to the ballroom filled with light and noise. "Shall we?"

VVV

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth my dear, there you are."

Elizabeth's heart always warmed at the sight of her bewigged father, especially when he was happy. And tonight he was—very much so. Though Jack Sparrow and his crew had not been caught, the governor was like a mother hen: he much preferred that all of his own flock were home and safe. Governor Swann's face broke into a wide smile when he saw Elizabeth and Will enter, and he maneuvered through the crowd to shake Will's hand. He seemed out of breath.

"Mr. Turner, so good to see you this evening. So glad you could come. Please come further in and enjoy yourself."

"Thank you, Governor Swann," Will inclined his head as a servant took his cape and hat. "If I may, I'll engage your daughter in the first dance."

"Be my guest," Elizabeth's father nodded. "Though you may not have room on the dance floor! It is quite taken up by all the officers and sailors. But it is their occasion, of course. Must celebrate a safe return." Elizabeth observed the slight tension in her father's brow as he glanced back toward the larger group, but before she had need to smooth it away with a word or two, it dissipated, and his cheerful look returned. "Go ahead, both of you," he urged. "I must see to the other guests."

And just like that, he had trundled away. Elizabeth fondly watched him go, then let Will pull her toward the sounds of lively music and tapping feet.

The ballroom, a tall-ceilinged chamber packed with people, was aglow with chandeliers, hanging torchlight and candlelight. It was very warm, but the windows were open, and a cool night breeze wafted through.

Her father was right—there were _a lot _of dancers, but despite her weak protests, Will pulled her right into the center of the lines and they stumbled into the middle of the steps. If any other man had tried such a trick, she would have been livid. As it was, she laughed in delight, gripped Will's hands tightly, and fought to keep up to the lively rhythm. She knew that usually she, as the governor's daughter, would have entered the party with more fanfare, but the status of her escort now prevented it. Because at the moment, he was only an escort. That would change, though. Soon.

Several times, her laughter and Will's rang out over the music and the conversation of those dancing and watching. In fact, she did not want to stop when the music ceased, but Will insisted that she have a chair while he procured some punch for her.

Grinning, she obliged him and seated herself, pulling out her fan and cooling her flushed cheeks. Then her eye caught the hem of her dress. Someone had stepped on it, snagging some of the delicate embroidery.

"Rubbish," she muttered, bending down to take up her hem between her fingers.

She froze. A pair of polished shoes caught her eye. A man was standing in front of her—a man with perfect military posture and glittering buckles. She lifted her face, slowly taking him in one aspect at a time, her heart sinking. White stockings, and then the white-and-gold trousers, waistcoat and blue coat of a British Naval officer—and the face of a man she had known since childhood.

A stern, disapproving brow, a strong, unsmiling mouth, straight nose, noble cheekbones and chin. A powdered, white wig set off every feature with dignity. He was handsome, yes—she would acknowledge that. She always had. But his good looks were poisoned for her—tainted by an unbending pride and a guarded exterior that never broke to let anyone in. Only once had she ever seen anything different in those deep, cold gray eyes. And whatever that had been was not there now. But his regard latched onto her and stopped her breath.

His gaze met hers without flinching. He nodded to her.

"Miss Swann," Commodore James Norrington said, his voice deep and even, and familiar, though she had not heard it in months. "May I have the honor of the next dance?"

"Yes." The word fell out of her mouth—stunned into the open air. He watched her for just another moment, as unreadable as stone, then nodded again, and departed through the crowd. Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath, feeling lightheaded.

Folding her fan, she got up and swept out of the dance hall, heading for the powder rooms as fast as her feet would carry her. She would find a lady to loosen her corset—she refused to give the Commodore the satisfaction of watching her faint again.

VVV

When she returned, more lucid and capable of breathing, she stood with the wallflowers, hoping Norrington would forget about her. She was even hiding from Will, because the dear heart could not help but be conspicuous.

But then the ladies in front of her fluttered, like jungle birds fanning their plumes, and they parted like the Red Sea.

Norrington stood before her, watching her again, and held out his right hand. The ladies muttered to each other. Gathering up all the etiquette she knew, and realizing she would need it, Elizabeth curtsied, reached up and took his hand.

She had no time to be startled, for he instantly led her to the dance floor, but she had not expected his touch to feel this way. Will's hands were calloused from working with a bellows and anvil. She had anticipated Norrington's hands to be smooth, from manning a desk and working with a compass and telescope. But as he turned her to face him and he slid his hand out of hers, his palms and fingers were rough. Unsteady, even. As if a rope had been wrenched out of his grip one too many times…

But she betrayed none of this musing on her face. As the music began, she felt his eyes on her, and it made her jaw clench.

"How was the sea during your journey, Commodore?" she asked, her gaze straight ahead. He took her hand again, and they turned.

"Tolerable," he answered. She glanced at him.

"You found no enjoyment in your journey?"

He did not look at her.

"Very little."

They let go of each other and returned to their lines, then took two steps toward each other. She cocked her head at him, though he avoided her eyes.

"I wonder, then, Commodore, why you should choose a profession that gives you so little pleasure."

He held out his hand and waited. Biting her tongue, she took it. They turned again.

"Pleasure is a luxury, I have found," he replied, giving no hint that he had felt her verbal jab. "I receive satisfaction, if not pleasure, from knowing that I keep innocent people safe."

"And you believe that to be the highest calling of all, I suppose?" She knew she should restrain herself—she knew she should swallow her words. But _his _unkind words to Will earlier in the day stuck her like a thorn, and she could not relent. They faced each other again and stepped toward each other, and this time Norrington found her eyes. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his.

"By no means," he responded. "What would make you suggest such a thing?"

They turned away from each other, crossed behind the people beside them, and then joined hands again and passed down the middle.

"It is no secret that you disdain certain occupations and stations and you live to bring them lower still—and that you even desire death for those who have been driven to thievery by poverty and want," she said. "I am wondering what part of your character finds satisfaction in _that_."

His gaze never moved from her face, nor his hand from hers. They kept dancing, but his mouth tightened.

"I can say nothing except that your assessment of me is both enlightening and disheartening," he murmured. She expected him to elaborate, but he did not. They finished the dance, and he led her over to the chair she had occupied initially. She sat down. But he kept hold of her hand, which made her look up at him.

Something flickered in his eyes again. Something distant and heavy.

"Thank you for dancing with me," he said quietly. "I am relieved to see that you are well, and happy, and…" he glanced down, then almost smiled at her. "As beautiful as ever. Good evening, Elizabeth." And he released her hand, turned and vanished into the crowd. Elizabeth slowly let her hand fall into her lap.

Will found her soon—he had not seen her dancing with Norrington, which was a relief. She tried her best to enjoy the rest of the night, and almost managed to forget her encounter with the stoic Commodore, until she, Will and her father were seated in the carriage and home bound.

And absently, as the carriage swayed back and forth and the wheels clattered over the cobbles, Elizabeth realized that, though his skin was rough, Norrington's hold on her hand had remained soft all through the dance, and with each verbal wound he received, his grip had grown even gentler.

Elizabeth was stabbed with sudden guilt that made her close her eyes against the glare of the streetlamps.

She had not even asked him how he had been, or what hardship had forced him to return home empty handed.

VVV

James Norrington burst through a door and into the cooler, darker night air behind the city hall. He jerked on his cravat until it loosened around his throat, and he drew in a sharp, deep breath. But he still could not breathe. He leaned both hands on the marble railing of the patio, keeping his eyes fixed on the moon, biting back every curse word he knew as he fought down the savage pain tearing through his chest. He closed his eyes and struggled to take another breath. Would to God he was back at sea again. For though life aboard ship held untold miseries, they were nothing next to what he knew waited for him here.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_TWO_

"_The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light."_

_-Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 7_

_VVV_

It had been a perfect day. Exactly one week after the ball, Elizabeth and Will had announced their engagement from atop the prettiest stone balcony in town, surrounded by exotic flowers and a packed square of the cheering citizens of Port Royal. They had even been so bold as to share a kiss in front of everyone, which sent the crowd into ecstasies. As Elizabeth stood there, bathed in golden sunlight with her true love's arms wrapped around her, she smiled to think that mere months ago, most of the town had paid Will no mind—but then he had braved all odds to rescue her from Captain Barbossa, even turning pirate to make certain she was safe, and his legend now stretched all across the West Indies—no doubt helped along by the ever-active tongue of Captain Jack Sparrow.

After the announcement, they had adjourned to the governor's mansion for luncheon, and then Will and Elizabeth, alone for the first time in what felt like ages, were allowed a long stroll through the shade of the gardens beneath the fruit trees and singing birds. Yes, it was a perfect day.

Until it was completely spoiled by the arrival of a neatly-written invitation at exactly three o'clock in the afternoon.

Her father read it first—it had been handed to him as he, Will and Elizabeth reclined in the cool parlor of the governor's house, enjoying the breeze through the windows.

"Ah. It seems Commodore Norrington wishes to bestow his congratulations in person," her father said, sitting up in his armchair and squinting at the invitation. Elizabeth lifted her head from the pillow where she rested on the couch.

"What?"

"Yes, it seems that all of us are invited to dinner at his home this evening at eight o'clock—he wishes to congratulate us on your engagement and also introduce us to some important friends."

"All of us?" Will prompted, narrowing his eyes as he leaned forward in his own chair.

"Yes," her father nodded, still reading the invite. "It specifically states your name, Mr. Turner. He would be pleased to receive you as well, if you are so inclined."

Elizabeth fell back onto her pillow with a huff.

"I suddenly have a headache."

"Elizabeth, I must insist that you get rid of it," her father said, lowering the letter and giving her a look. "This is a very civil and amiable gesture on the part of the Commodore, and from what I have heard, you do not quite deserve it after your treatment of him at the ball."

"I was perfectly civil," Elizabeth muttered. She felt Will turn to her.

"The ball?"

"Elizabeth danced with Commodore Norrington, but was not polite to him, I am sorry to say," her father sighed, leaning back in his chair once more.

"You didn't tell me you danced with him," Will said. Elizabeth shifted and met Will's bright gaze. He looked so dashing in that brown suit. It brought out his eyes…

"That's because the dance didn't matter. In fact, I forgot about it almost immediately," Elizabeth lied.

"Nevertheless, we are going this evening." Her father arose, folding the letter. "Of course, I cannot speak for Mr. Turner…"

"I would be glad to accept," Will nodded. Her father smiled and headed toward the door.

"Very well, I will respond right away." And he left.

Elizabeth sighed, and found Will's eyes again.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Why?" Will asked, crossing and sitting on the floor near her head. She rolled over on her side and leaned her forehead against his hair.

"For toting you around to all these official functions. I know they're intolerable."

He twisted and gave her a smile.

"Not yet."

She chuckled and laced her fingers through his dark brown curls, closing her eyes. She had been looking forward to a quiet dinner with the people she loved, not putting on a good face for an ill-tempered, dull-spirited officer of the Navy. Especially if her father was going to remain so near and make her be polite to Norrington when she was in no mood to do so.

VVVVV

Eight o'clock came sooner than Elizabeth liked, and soon they were stepping out of the carriage and being greeted by Norrington's servants. Elizabeth glanced up at the white house. She had been there before, but not recently. It was a very well-kept, reasonably-sized dwelling, with green shutters and tall windows. There was no garden in the front or to the sides, but the rear of the house boasted at least an acre of land. Beyond that, she could see the torches atop the walls of the fort glimmering in the dark.

She entered the house on Will's arm, her father just ahead of them. The servants guided them through the entryway, the temperature immediately cooling, and led them into the long dining room.

Several men already waited within—the Commodore standing behind the chair at the head of the table. Off to his left stood Gillette, a faithful lieutenant, and two other men Elizabeth did not recognize. The other men wore fashionable black suits and white waistcoats and trousers, but the Commodore and Gillett were bedecked in their Navy finest. Elizabeth wanted to roll her eyes. Did they not possess any other clothing?

Norrington's eyes found her the instant she entered with Will. He regarded her briefly, then approached her father, bearing the ghost of a smile. Elizabeth's spine went stiff, but she kept her face blank. Something hid behind the Commodore's eyes—but again, she could not read him.

"Governor Swann—thank you so much for coming. Welcome."

"Thank you, Commadore," her father said, beaming, and shaking Norrington's hand.

"Governor Swann, Miss Swann," Norrington turned and gestured to the other men. "May I present Lord Cutler Beckett, and his right hand man, Mr. Mercer. And of course, you know Lieutenant Gillett."

Elizabeth barely registered Mr. Mercer. Her eyes fixed on the one Norrington had called "Beckett." He was several inches shorter than herself, but his expressionless face and cool gray eyes reminded her of a snake under a bush. He inclined his wigged head to her, and her father.

"It is a pleasure," Beckett said, his tenor tones smooth and flat, his eyes moving from the governor to Elizabeth, to Will. "And who is this young man?"

"Oh, of course," Elizabeth's father said. "Lord Beckett, may I present Mr. William Turner, the town's blacksmith and my daughter's fiancé."

Norrington merely glanced at Will, then at Elizabeth. She gritted her teeth at the slight. As her intended, Will should not have been left out of the initial introduction. Will managed a smile.

"Happy to make your acquaintance."

"Dinner is about to be served," Norrington gestured to the table. "May I invite all of you to be seated?"

"Thank you, Commodore," Beckett said, but he cast a long look at Will before moving to the chair just to the left of the one at the head. Norrington stationed himself behind the head seat, and Will moved to seat Elizabeth in the chair _next _to the seat of honor, as she had instructed him to do—usually, the seat at the right hand of the host was reserved for her father.

"Sir," a manservant approached and murmured to Will. "The Commodore wishes for Miss Swann to have the seat beside him."

Elizabeth glanced at will to see his eyes flash, but he said nothing.

"Please pardon the breach of decorum, Governor; Mr. Turner," Norrington said, having watched the exchange. "On such a day as this, I merely wish to specially honor the lady who has been my friend for so long."

"Certainly, Commodore!" Her father was pleased. Will was not. But what choice did they have?

"Indeed, I hear you are engaged, Miss Swann," Cutler Beckett said, resting his hands on the back of his wooden chair. "May I offer my…" His gaze flicked to Will. "…congratulations."

"Thank you, my lord," Elizabeth said, trying not to speak through her teeth.

"Please be seated," Norrington urged, and when she looked at him, he only gave her that same inscrutable yet somehow warning gaze for a moment before turning to Beckett. Biting her cheek, Elizabeth sat next to Norrington, and her father stood to her right, and Gillette stood next to him. Wincing, she watched Will walk all the way around the long table to sit next to Beckett's man, Mr. Mercer, who was a craggy, unexpressive man with dark, beady eyes. Elizabeth gave Will a face of brief apology when he glanced at her, but his smile reassured her.

"How have you enjoyed your stay thus far, Lord Beckett?" Norrington inquired as he seated himself. Chairs groaned and squeaked as all the other men sat down.

"This climate is a good deal too warm for me," Beckett replied as a servant leaned over his shoulder to pour him some wine. "But your hospitality is unsurpassed, Commodore. We are most grateful."

Norrington glanced down and smiled a little, taking his napkin and unfolding it onto his lap. Elizabeth did the same thing, hoping Will would follow suit.

"Forgive me, Lord Beckett," the governor spoke up. "But I believe I know your father the duke, Francis Beckett?"

"Indeed you did, sir," Beckett nodded. "Before his death, he spoke of you."

"My condolences," the governor said.

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed at Beckett, for she could not help but be suspicious that the elder Beckett may not have been complimentary of her father. Norrington, his eyes still downcast, tightened his mouth.

"Your family has made a name for itself in shipping and trading endeavors, has it not?" the governor asked.

"Yes. In fact," Beckett arched an eyebrow. "I am the chairman of the East India Trading Company."

"Oh, indeed!" Her father's surprise swept over Elizabeth, but her eyes flew to Will. However, he only watched Beckett. Elizabeth then realized that Will would not remember—he had not been there when Jack Sparrow had saved her from drowning, and Norrington had pointed out a brand on Sparrow's arm—a "P" seared into the flesh of Sparrow's forearm, labeling him as a pirate, and put there by the East India Trading Company.

Elizabeth turned her face slightly toward Norrington. He met her eyes for an instant, the corner of his mouth lifting. She glared at him. _He _remembered.

Cutlery clattered as a door opened, and the servants brought out the first course. The spicy scent of Caribbean small roasted game hen filled the dining room.

"And what brings you to Port Royal, Lord Beckett?" the governor persisted.

"Pirates," Beckett answered. "They have been plaguing my shipping lanes for an intolerable length of time and costing me a fortune. I was on the brink of despair when I caught wind of the news that a Commodore from Port Royal had set out to bring down the _Black Pearl. _The _Black Pearl!" _He shook his head and laughed. "I knew I had to investigate, for this man had to be either the bravest I'd ever heard of, or completely mad."

Norrington chuckled, as did Gillette, but Norrington kept his eyes down. Elizabeth searched Will's face worriedly, but if he was irritated, he did not show it. Elizabeth ground her teeth. How had Beckett not heard of the courageous exploits of Will and Jack in this instance?

The next moment, however, Elizabeth's sentiments reversed completely. She began to hope that Beckett would _continue _to forget Will, for Beckett's countenance took on grim amusement.

"The rumors were indeed true—the _Black Pearl _was taken, her captain killed and her crew captured," Beckett went on. "You can then imagine my puzzlement when the _Black Pearl_, after all that trouble, merely changed hands from pirate to pirate—to _Jack Sparrow, _of all men, because he escaped the gallows of Port Royal. Twice." Beckett sat back. "'Good heavens,' I thought to myself. 'Port Royal must be as overrun by this pirate menace as I am.' And so I made all haste in this direction, hoping to find usefulness in the company of…" he glanced at Norrington, then at the Governor. "…like-minded men."

Norrington felt like a marble statue beside Elizabeth, and Will like a taut bow. But most of all, she sensed power simmering beneath Beckett's calm exterior—and she had heard the threat in his voice. She was not stupid. She had been privy to more masculine conversation than most English ladies, simply because she was always surrounded by men. She understood fully what Beckett was saying, which was, in effect: "_You had the pirate I most want to kill in the palm of your hand. You let him go. I am here to see why." _

"I am certain you have been brought into the company of kindred spirits at this table, my lord," Norrington declared, though he did not move anything but his eyes. "All of us have keenly felt the damage caused by the pirate presence in the Caribbean, and we would all like to see it come to an end. None desire it more than the governor and myself."

Elizabeth's eyes blazed at Will, who lifted a delicate eyebrow, then gave attention to his food.

"You disagree, Miss Swann?" Beckett said.

Elizabeth inwardly grimaced. Beckett was seated right across from her, after all—he had seen the face she had made. But she took a breath, cocked her head coyly and gave Beckett a bright look.

"I am just curious, my lord, as to the reason you seem particularly disgusted with Captain Jack Sparrow."

All the men shifted when she used the word "captain," and Beckett regarded her father for a moment before addressing her. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but cold.

"Jack Sparrow was under my employ more than ten years ago," he said. "He was an excellent sailor, and a brilliant navigator. I instructed him to carry a shipment of slaves—priceless cargo—to the New World. Instead," Beckett's right hand closed around the handle of his knife. "Sparrow released them on the coast of Africa. The convoy following him realized what had happened and took him captive. I branded him as a pirate myself and threw him out. He was lucky I didn't kill him." His mouth twisted as he took up his utensils and carved into the little bird before him. Elizabeth's stomach turned as the image of her and Will's friend writhing under the red-hot iron as Beckett pressed it to his arm.

"I _should_ have killed him," Beckett stated. "For not two years later, he sacked one of my key ports with the help of only one other man: one called Bootstrap Bill. Bill…Turner, I believe. But I could be wrong. It's such a common name."

Elizabeth went cold. Will kept utterly silent. The _last _thing she wanted Beckett to discover was that Bootstrap was Will's _father_. And so she decided to divert the attention away from Will entirely.

"Captain Sparrow saved my life."

Norrington's attention flashed to her. But she did not take her eyes from Beckett as she went on.

"I fell off a battlement and into the water. Captain Sparrow dove off a ship and saved me from drowning. And later, he assisted in saving me from Captain Barbossa. In fact, he killed Barbossa himself."

Beckett merely looked at her. Then he took a bite of bird.

"I would be the last person to say that saving you was a mistake," Beckett said. "But one good deed cannot redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness."

An echo of that phrase resounded in Elizabeth's mind. She had heard it before—perhaps from the Commodore sitting next to her.

"Wickedness?" she laughed, but she was furious. "I see, so…endeavoring to save a governor's daughter from becoming a blood sacrifice is wickedness, but trafficking in human slaves is the model of goodness?"

Beckett's iron gaze hit her like a bullet. She gritted her teeth and did not let herself buckle beneath it. Her father, Gillette and Mercer straightened. Will's fear for her practically radiated across the table—and for a moment, it distracted her from the rough, deft fingers that slid around hers, under the table, and squeezed her left hand tight.

She went stiff, not daring to turn her head. Norrington held her fingers gently, but with a pressure that made her feel his strength.

It was a warning, as clear as if he had spoken it. She understood. And so she clenched her jaw and kept her pleasant mask. Trying not to move her arm so they could see, she attempted to pull her hand out of Norrington's. He did not allow it. Instead, he held on for a moment, squeezed one last time, then let go with a suddenness that made her blink. He then sat up and cleared his throat.

"Please eat, Governor Swann, Miss Swann," he said. "These birds were especially hard to come by, and I would hate for them to go to waste."

His voice sounded like the growl of a tiger, and Elizabeth dared not look at him, knowing that if she did, she would turn all her wrath from Beckett to him.

VVVV

After dinner, they adjourned to the parlor, where a fire was lit—even though the humidity was stifling—and the men sat in a circle, drank brandy and chatted about the state of the Empire, and Elizabeth was obliged to play the old familiar harpsichord in the dark corner. Thankfully, a servant took pity on her and brought a candelabra to light the keys, otherwise she would have felt as if she was playing in a haunted house.

She was still simmering over the way the entire dinner party had gone, but her father had made a point of including Will in the conversation since her own blunder, and skillfully turning it away from dangerous subjects. Now, she sat by herself at the harpsichord, trying to ignore all of them and make herself play something interesting. She had been asked to play on each occasion she and her father had visited—she felt a kinship with the instrument that shared the drudgery of such times.

She bit her lip. The humidity had doubtlessly made this poor harpsichord ridiculously out of tune. Glancing up and begging forgiveness from the composer, she began to play a concerto.

She closed her eyes, listening to her playing, and relaxed when she heard it actually did not sound terrible. Perhaps Norrington had had it tuned recently.

Out of the corner of her attention, she heard her father invite Will to describe in detail the forging of a sword, which captured the interest of all the men, and Elizabeth smiled to herself. Oh, how she loved the two of them.

She listened as Will spoke, the animation in his speech growing—and she almost jerked when a shadow fell across her. She risked a brief glance upward, forcing her fingers to remain steady.

It was Norrington, standing in the crook of the harpsichord, watching her. His eyes glimmered in the candlelight. She lifted an eyebrow.

"You almost made me run afoul of the melody, Commodore."

"That was not my intention," he replied quietly. Elizabeth kept her eyes on her hands, watching her fingers pass over the keys in a contrast of burnt light and dark.

"May I ask, Miss Swann," he said, his voice low enough so only she could hear. "What is the manner of your recent disapproval of me?"

She lifted her eyes again, and lingered on him a moment longer. He merely waited for her to speak, his brow furrowed. Elizabeth held a chord, then her right hand darted up the scale and continued with the piece.

"You treat my fiancé with indifference and you hunt the man who saved my life," she stated, though she also kept her voice down.

"Is that all?"

Elizabeth blinked, but when she saw his face, she realized he was in earnest. She stifled a laugh.

"Is that not enough for you?"

Norrington swallowed, then he glanced back toward the fire. Elizabeth bit her lip. She should stop it. He was her host, and had invited her into his home to honor her engagement. She lifted her eyes once more to find him watching her, and she gave him a smile to ease her last comment. His face softened. She attended to her playing again, concentrating on a more difficult part of the piece.

"What are you playing?" Norrington asked, moving closer and tilting his head so he could observe her hands.

"Bach, Concerto number five in F minor," she answered. "I learned it before we made the crossing from England."

"Certainly you've practiced it since then."

That brought her head up again. His eyes sparkled briefly. She looked back down.

"Once or twice," she muttered.

For a long moment, he was silent, and she thought he would soon rejoin the men. Instead, he rested a hand on the smooth wood of the back of the harpsichord.

"I have considered selling it."

Elizabeth frowned.

"What? Why?"

He ran his fingertips across the grain, not looking at her. His voice was so quiet when he spoke, she almost did not hear him.

"You are getting married."

Her frown deepened.

"What does that have to do with the harpsichord?"

"No one else plays it." He met her eyes and gave her a weak smile. Elizabeth swallowed, then glared at the keys.

"I wish you wouldn't sell it," she said firmly. "This harpsichord is my friend."

He seemed touched, somehow, and Elizabeth studied his quiet expression for a moment. She smiled at him again, remembering her manners.

"Whenever you invite Will and me to dinner, I'll be sure to play for you."

His deep eyes grew sad, just for an instant, and then he smiled crookedly and glanced down.

"Of course."

After that exchange, which left Elizabeth slightly confused, he remained there, as if he had no more to say. After a while, however she relaxed into his presence—enough that she did not feel as if she was always on the edge of making a mistake.

The night deepened, and finally the governor arose from his armchair, declaring that it was time they were off home. Elizabeth rose from the harpsichord and stepped up to Will's side as the group exchanged parting pleasantries.

"Tell me, Governor Swann," Beckett said, after her father expressed his weariness. "Have you been considering retirement?"

The governor straightened.

"Retirement? No, good heavens! Where ever did you hear such a thing?"

Beckett shrugged.

"Yet another rumor—I prefer to keep myself abreast of all the news. But you say you haven't considered it? I am surprised. I would imagine you were desirous of a more long-term rest!"

"Oh, no," the governor shook his head. "Not yet."

"Yet you do confess that it is best to be prepared, is it not? One never knows what will happen." Beckett was watching Elizabeth's father in a way that made Elizabeth's skin crawl.

"I agree wholeheartedly with the wisdom of preparedness, Lord Beckett," the governor admitted.

"Well," Beckett clasped his hands behind his back. "When you do decide to relieve yourself of your burdensome duties, be certain to contact me. I know most of these islands like the back of my hand, and could easily recommend a lovely place for you," Beckett eyed Will again. "…should you ever wish to get out of Port Royal."

"Thank you, my lord," the governor forced a smile. "I will certainly do that."

Elizabeth had gone ash white. Her blood ran thick and cold through her veins. She slid her hands up and took hold of Will's arm, to steady herself. As she, Will and her father turned to leave, she cast a frozen look over all the men she was leaving behind.

She was not stupid. She had heard what they were saying—and it turned her to ice even as its full meaning continued to sink in.

Beckett and Mercer were monsters. And Gillette and Norrington? They were no better than traitors.

VVVV

After Beckett and Mercer retired to their guest quarters in the upper-back part of the house, and Gillette went home, Norrington listened to the silence of the rooms. He glanced over at the empty harpsichord, where the lit candelabra still sat, the candle wax dripping into the base. Slowly, he stepped over to it, and sat down at the bench. He rested his hand on the keys, imagining they were still warm from her fingers.

After hesitating a moment, he brought his other hand up to join the first, and he began to play the same concerto she had, but much slower. The instrument did not seem to sing beneath his fingers the way it had for her. Poor, lonely instrument.

He stopped playing in the middle of a phrase. He swallowed. The clock on the mantle ticked. The shadows flickering across the keys mocked him.

He closed his eyes, his chest threatening to collapse again. He got up, pushed the stool back, and once more felt the oppressive silence weighing down on him. After blowing out the candles, he retreated to his room, undressed and got into bed.

But he could not sleep. The memory of her fingers on the keys, the brilliance of her eyes, and her two stunning smiles haunted him until daylight.

TBC


End file.
